All our old granddaddies—
so impervious,
or else
oblivious—
to this
sort of heat
would be
proud! at how
even at ninety
degrees—
there's these
seemingly hundreds of dozens of them—
swelling-
up ev-
er-
y
second—at each
new swerve
of re-
cycled street;
thirsty to meet
and fain
sell—you and me
their hot and sweet roadside
water by the dipperful—like so much
dependable-
but-preposterous
Scotch whiskey.
And we—
though glistening,
out-
landishly
overdressed—still dribble,
so
eager! to take them up on the whole
crazy idea.
